


summer love

by leetheshark



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Attempted Murder, Cutting, Gambling, Gambling Addiction, Homophobia, M/M, Murder, Pre-Canon, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, References to Suicide, Scars, Sexual Content, Stalking, toxic parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetheshark/pseuds/leetheshark
Summary: Roman almost gets murdered on the shores of Atlantic City, at 22 years old.It all blossoms from there.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 49
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

As the Sionis family car speeds down the Turnpike, the sun burns high above and Roman sulks in the backseat. It’s the car they take to family events: a polished black Bentley better suited to nights at galas than to packing up suitcases and heading south for a summer vacation. As much as Roman wishes the car would crash, it keeps barreling on, 60 miles per hour through the searing June heat in the direction of Atlantic City.

Roman glares out the window through pink-tinted sunglasses matched delicately to the color of his silk button-down. His shirt is tucked into black linen slacks, and on his feet, manicured toenails peek out from sandals that cost his entire weekly allowance. He resists every effort to be spoken to, either from his parents or the driver, whom he hates solely because the driver works for his parents. In Roman’s eyes, that’s an unforgivable offense.

(In Roman’s eyes, many things are an unforgivable offense.)

Roman insisted before they left that he was too old for a family vacation. He also insisted that nowhere within driving distance of Gotham City could possibly be worth visiting, and that even if he wanted to go on vacation at all, there were a million other places more suitable for people like them. Why not go to Europe? Roman hasn’t even been to Florence yet! He’s dying to see the Uffizi. Or if they wanted to stay on the same continent, why not Mexico? Puerto Vallarta would have been fine!

But Roman’s parents wanted to go to Atlantic fucking City, and they refused to leave him in the house alone, because they don’t trust him. Typical. It’s like they don’t even realize he’s an adult.

It’s been like this ever since Roman dropped out of Princeton last summer, deciding not to return for the fall semester. As far as he’s concerned, he did his parents a favor. After spending his three years there sleeping through class, partying nearly every night, and having his parents pay for his grades, his education wasn’t going to amount to anything, anyway. His parents should have been pleased that he saved them all that wasted money.

They weren’t.

A degree would have made Roman look better, and that’s all his parents really care about: not the real Roman, with real thoughts and feelings and interests, but an empty mask that they prop up like a statue for all their rich faux friends and the newspapers. They keep his secrets locked down tight and refuse to talk about anything that could hurt their reputation, even in their own home.

It makes Roman’s skin crawl.

Once in Atlantic City, they stop for lunch before heading to the resort. It’s only a couple hours’ drive, but when Roman peels himself off the leather seat and climbs out of the car, he stretches his legs and shoulders like he’s been cooped up for days. Moisture hangs heavy in the air and Roman wrinkles his nose imagining the mosquitoes that must be buzzing nearby. It’s hot. It’s too fucking hot, and Roman’s going to sweat through his shirt if he doesn’t get inside the restaurant soon, which would be a _crisis._

At the table, Roman orders a gin and tonic and gets carded, which makes him pout. He knows he looks young, but hopefully not that young. He may only be twenty-two, but he deserves some respect. Is it just because he’s with his parents? He sips his drink a little faster than usual and orders a second, and tries to keep from blowing his lid every time his mother or father tries to engage him in conversation. If he tried to tell them about anything he really cared about, they wouldn’t listen anyway. The food isn’t bad—if this is an authentic taste of Atlantic City’s cuisine, Roman won’t have a problem in that department for the next two weeks—so he focuses on that and tries to ignore everything else.

After lunch, they pile back in the car and head for the resort. The driver drops them off at the front of the building before leaving to park the car. Roman has to crane his head back to see the top, and when he does, he thinks he can see chairs and tables set up on the roof. Interesting.

The lobby is hideously tacky, so when they get up to their sixth-floor suite, Roman is pleasantly surprised to see that it isn’t all that bad. The main living space and two adjoining bedrooms are painted white with dark red accent walls and gold décor. They’re some of Roman’s favorite colors. Potted plants inhabit select corners, and there are abstract paintings on the walls. Roman makes a mental note to examine those in more detail later. For now, he blows off his parents and locks himself in his bedroom to unpack his clothes and take the nap he’s been looking forward to all day. After the car ride and lunch, being alone is a sweet relief.

In the dresser go Roman’s pajamas, other lounge clothes, and accessories, including his sunglasses. In the closet, the rest of his clothes, which he checks for wrinkles and other damage as he goes. Finally, he lines up his shoes on the closet floor: the sandals he came here in, lounge slippers, and two pairs of oxfords in case of a special occasion. Then, Roman strips to his silk boxer briefs, pulls on a pair of cool satin pajama pants and a t-shirt, and crawls into the king-size bed.

Even though Roman prefers his sheets at home (he chose them for a reason), the hotel’s sheets still feel like bliss on his skin when he climbs under the covers. Even under a sheet and thick down comforter, and with the searing heat outside, the air conditioning keeps Roman pleasantly cool as he drifts off.

It’s hours later when Roman finally wanders out of his room. He yawns as he pads barefoot along the carpet into what seems to be an empty suite. There’s a note on the en-suite kitchen table. Roman picks it up.

_Roman—_

_Gone to the casino. Decided to let you rest. Order anything you want from room service._

The note finishes with his mother’s professional signature. Roman’s nostrils flare. He crumbles up the note and throws it into the trashcan. It was supposed to be a family vacation! It’s not that Roman wants to spend time with his parents—he wants the opposite—but shouldn’t they want to spend time with _him?_ It’s the first night of vacation, and they’re leaving him alone in the hotel room? Without even a ‘Love, Mom and Dad?’

Roman slumps into a kitchen chair. He knows from experience that he would have gotten unruly if he’d gone to the casino. Was that why his parents didn’t want to bring him along? So he didn’t embarrass them?

He slides the room service menu in front of him from across the table. Even though his parents won’t notice or care, he chooses some of the most expensive items out of spite. After calling the front desk—and ordering an 8 oz. filet mignon with roasted garlic mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts, a warm brownie with ice cream, and a bottle of champagne—Roman returns to his bedroom to wash his face in the attached bathroom.

After, he opens the curtains of his bedroom window to see whether the sun has set yet. It’s dusk, with a blue-gray sky fading into deep orange over the ocean, but Roman is more interested to see that his window is actually a sliding glass door with a small balcony on its other side. When he slides the door open and steps out onto it, it’s the perfect height to look over the beach. The texture of the balcony floor is rough on his feet, so he goes back inside and puts on his slippers, planning to come back out later.

By the time Roman’s room service comes, it’s fully dark outside. He steps onto the balcony again, in his slippers and holding his tray, where the lights of the boardwalk glow yellow below and the moon shines high above. He sets the tray down on a small, round table, and sits down in the chair beside it. The summer heat at night isn’t so bad, especially with the slight breeze passing by. Roman just hopes his ice cream doesn’t melt too much before he gets to it.

Roman rushes through his entrée, ravenous from his nap. Between bites, he drinks the champagne straight from the bottle, with full intention to finish it himself. A few stragglers roam the empty beach below, too far away for Roman to see properly. He guesses they’re teenagers or young adults with their friends, something Roman doesn’t have any of, aside from the people who go to the same clubs as him and a few regular hook-ups.

When he starts to feel too hot on the balcony, Roman takes his dessert and champagne and goes back inside. He sits in bed, setting the bottle of champagne down on the nightstand and balancing his plate on crossed legs, then flips through channels on the TV in his room for something interesting. He eventually settles on reruns of _The Real World: San Francisco._ Roman likes reality TV more than he’d like to admit. It’s thanks to his sadism more than anything else. He eats his brownie and ice cream over the course of one episode, then gets bored and turns the TV off.

Roman only gets through half the bottle of champagne before the carbonation starts to upset his stomach. Anticipating a hangover, he chugs a glass of water to minimize the damage before crawling back into bed to sleep it off. When he wakes up, the digital alarm clock on his nightstand reads 2:20 and his parents still aren’t back. Roman peels himself out of bed and wanders again onto the balcony, where the beach below is fully empty. After two naps, his pajamas are starting to feel sweaty, so he peels them off right there on the balcony to feel the outdoor air on his skin.

Roman pads back into the bedroom. It hits him again that his parents left him alone, and he decides it’s not fair that they get to go out and he doesn’t. After brushing his teeth and washing his face again, Roman changes into swim trunks and pulls on a floral shirt that he doesn’t bother to button. Then, he slips one of the extra key cards in his shirt pocket before taking the elevator down. On his way through the lobby, he passes by the resort’s casino. That must be where his parents are. Even though he’s tempted to go find them and make a scene, he sticks to his plan and leaves the hotel.

The beach is only a few blocks away. Roman doesn't have any trouble finding it. The boardwalk is still lit by yellow streetlights, even though most of the stores are dark, and as Roman bounds down the boardwalk steps and onto the beach, sand gets in his sandals and between his toes. He wrinkles his nose but keeps going, dropping his sandals a few yards away from the ocean and trudging barefoot the rest of the way. Where the tide comes and goes, Roman sits down in the sand and lets the water wash past him over and over again.

It wets his trunks and the bottom of his shirt. He plants his feet in the wet earth in front of him and slumps forward, crossing his arms over his knees and burying his head there. Even though he’d rather think of anything else, he can’t help but think of his parents. Hot tears fall from his eyes as he whimpers into the night. As upset as he is, he’s equally grateful that there’s no one around to see him.

After a while, Roman tries to wash his face with sea water, crying even harder when the salt gets in his eyes. He holds his fists to his eyelids and tries to blink it away, then climbs to his feet on wobbly legs. Without any clear destination in mind, and with tears still flowing down his cheeks, Roman puts his sandals back on and starts to wander along the shore.  


* * *

  
Victor’s on his third stop out of four for the night. It isn’t his favorite part of the job, but some people want their targets _gone_ gone, and he’s not exactly in a position to refuse some extra cash. He started out with four garbage bags, weighing about 50 pounds each and tied tight to avoid spilling any evidence. He dumped two already. Now, he trudges through the sand with his third.

He’s about to toss it into the ocean when a distant voice calls out:

“Hey!”

“Shit.” Victor drops the bag and turns in the direction of the voice. Its owner ambles along the shore in light pink swim trunks, brown and gold sandals, and an open floral shirt that flutters in the night’s breeze. In the faraway boardwalk lights, Victor can see tracks of tears glistening on his cheeks when he gets close.

Victor guesses he’s in his late teens, then changes his mind to early twenties. He’s taller than Victor but definitely younger than him, at Victor’s rough twenty-four.

Victor pulls out his knife and holds it inconspicuously by his hip.

“What are you doing?” the boy asks. His voice is thick from crying.

Victor answers honestly. “None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Are you dumping a _body?”_

“Unless you wanna be next,” Victor says, “it’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Can I see it?”

“No. Fuck off.”

The boy doesn’t seem like that much of a threat, so Victor sheaths his knife and starts to walk away, planning to take his garbage bag and dump it further down the shore. When a hand clasps his elbow, he stops in his tracks.

Victor tears his arm away. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

The boy sniffles. “Fine.”

Victor squints at the boy and looks him over, over his mussed brown hair and bare chest and wet eyes whose color Victor can’t quite tell in the dark, and he wonders whether the boy is stupid, brave, or just plain arrogant. He towers those few inches over Victor with broad chest and shoulders: natural bulk on someone who looks like he hasn’t worked a day in his life. The skin showing through his open shirt looks tender and pale, almost ghostly in the dark.

And then Victor decides: fuck it. It’s been too long since he did something for himself. Besides, the boy is cute, and Victor likes the cute ones. Maybe after, he’ll sink his teeth into that soft chest, as a treat.

He pulls out his knife again and lunges.

The boy collapses to the ground with a yelp, and with Victor heavy on top of him. From the boy’s shirt pocket falls a hotel key card.

Hah. A tourist.

Victor holds his blade to the boy’s neck, deciding where to cut—slit his throat? open up his carotid? Should he get it over with quick or savor the moment? There’s no one around; Victor can do it any way he wants. A grin spreads across his face and reveals the empty spaces where two of his teeth used to be.

The boy smacks at Victor’s arm. It jostles the knife, which glances against the boy’s neck and leaves a thin line of blood but no lasting damage. “What the _fuck?”_ he snarls. “I try to be friendly and this is how you repay me? You ugly fucking gutter rat! Get off me!”

Victor laughs. He leans in close, inches from the boy’s face, and coos, “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“My parents will have your head on a fucking pike.”

Victor teases with a crooked smile. “Not worried about it.”

The boy huffs, and Victor can’t deny that he likes his nerve. Most people just beg for their lives and try to offer Victor things he doesn’t want. This one’s different. He’s _indignant._ Victor’s a little disappointed that he’s going to die.

(But not that disappointed.)

Victor rarely thinks about it this much; he usually just does it. Maybe that’s why, when the boy grabs both of Victor’s arms and forces him off with a strength Victor didn’t expect from him, Victor is distracted enough for it to work. The knife drops into the sand, and so does Victor, with a thud that makes some of his newer wounds ache.

“Ugh!” The boy scrambles off the ground, brushing the sand off his clothes with obvious distaste, then picks up his key card and slips it back into his pocket. When he puts fingers to his neck to survey the damage, they come away smeared with blood. “You fucking cut me!”

Victor sits upright and squints. If someone like that can fight him off, he needs practice. Still, the more he considers it, the more his desire fizzles away. When fate intervenes, Victor tends to trust it. It’s kept him alive and kicking all this time. Maybe he won’t kill the boy after all.

“You fucking asshole!” the boy shrieks.

Victor looks him up and down. “Why are you still here?”

“What?”

“I tried to kill you. I could do it again. Why are you still here? Don’t you wanna run?”

The boy huffs.

“You want something from me? You want me to kill someone for you? Is that it?” Victor picks up his knife, wipes off the sand on his shorts, and sticks it back in the holster by his hip. “Why were you crying before?”

The simple question brings a new trickle of tears. The boy sniffles again. “My parents don’t care about me.”

“But they’d give a shit if I killed you?”

“That’s different. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Boo fucking hoo.”

“Fuck you.”

“So’s that what you want?” Victor asks. “You want me to kill you parents for you?”

The boy pauses, seeming to consider it. “No.”

Victor sighs. Fucking coward, then. Some people just don’t understand—Victor would have been doing them a _favor._

“I want to do it myself.” A look that’s familiar to Victor—he sometimes catches it in the mirror—flashes across the boy’s face. “When the time is right.”

Victor cackles, hyena-like, into the night. He definitely didn’t expect _this._ He’d be surprised if the boy had killed before. He’s probably an untamed animal without direction, or maybe just a cub who needs to learn. It feels suddenly imperative to know, so as Victor climbs to his feet, he asks, “You ever killed anyone before?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Victor stalks close. The boy doesn’t move. “Tell me how you wanna do it.”

“Poison,” the boy says, quickly and excitedly, like he’s thought about it before. “Or set them on fire. I haven’t decided.”

“Don’t like to get your hands dirty?”

“I don’t see the point.”

Victor grins, lopsided. “You will.” He’s starting to understand why fate didn’t want him to kill the boy. Maybe he’s too good to let go. There aren’t many people like him and Victor in the world. “What’s your name?”

“Roman Sionis.” He says it with some flourish, like he’s proud of who he is. Victor wonders what he could possibly be proud of, all of Atlantic fucking City before him and he decides to spend his time crying on the beach. He shouldn’t be proud of who he is. He should be proud of who he could be. “Have you heard of me?”

“No. People call me Zsasz,” Victor says, before realizing that isn’t exactly friendly. “Victor’s fine, too.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Victor.”

“Now that you know my name, are you gonna turn me in?”

“No,” Roman says. He frowns like the thought of it disgusts him. “I like you. I think we should see each other again.”

Even though it’s the answer Victor was hoping for, he still has to ask, “Why?”

“No one’s ever tried to kill me before. It was exciting.”

“Never got a review like that before.”

That makes Roman laugh, a full-bodied bubble of unrestrained delight that makes Victor laugh too. It only lasts until Victor notices the sun starting to rise over the ocean. He should have kept track of the time; he wears that cheap digital watch when he’s on the job for a reason. “I should go,” he says. “Got another bag in the car.” He meant to get rid of it before sunrise but, missing his chance, he’ll have to do it before too many people are out on the streets. He’s been spotted once already; he’s not stupid enough to let it happen again, just because he’s distracted.

“Will you come back later?” Roman asks.

“You want me to?”

“Obviously.”

Victor decides on the answer quicker than he would have expected. “Okay.”

“Five P.M.? Right here?”

“Sure.”

Roman grins. “Perfect. Goodbye, Victor.” He takes a few steps backward, keeping his eyes on Victor, before turning away and bounding down the beach at a half-jog. Once alone, Victor tosses the garbage bag into the ocean as far as he can and hopes the water takes it far enough away before beachgoers start crowding around in a few hours.

After the trek up the beach and a few blocks to his car, Victor makes his next stop at a landfill, where he dumps the last bag, and then heads to the dilapidated motel he’s been calling home for the past few weeks. The sun is fully out by the time Victor gets back to his dingy little bite of the city. There’s blood on the walls from before Victor moved in, faded brown stains on the wallpaper that almost no one else would recognize, and there’s blood that Victor put there: errant sprays from rare one-time lovers’ slit throats, a gunshot from the time a cop followed Victor home from a job (luckily without telling anyone) and he had to fix the problem quickly (he tries to clean up—he isn’t a slob—but it’s _hard_ getting blood out of wallpaper). Victor rarely carries a gun—he prefers knives instead, likes to feel what he’s doing—but it comes in handy, in his profession. Some people need to go with a bang. He keeps it in his nightstand.

Victor marks himself either way, and it feels fucking good every time.

He washes the sand and sweat off his body in the shower, whose hot water only runs about half the time, then touches himself to the memory of his knife cutting into Roman’s throat, replaying the brief moment in his head over and over. He wishes he could have licked the blood from Roman’s neck, but Roman probably wouldn’t have wanted to see him again.

It’s a shame.

After his shower, Victor makes his mark for the man he killed earlier. Still in an excited mood, he puts it on his thigh, dragging his blade in a long line across his hip. It’ll hurt to walk for a while; Victor will savor it. He tapes a couple of bandages over it, so he doesn’t get too much blood on his sheets, then pulls on a pair of worn boxers and tries to get some sleep against the daylight coming in through his thin curtains. He doesn’t set an alarm, but he isn’t worried about missing his meeting with Roman. Victor never sleeps for more than four hours at a time, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> named after and partially inspired by [summer love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJmMoTB5C_Y) by carly rae jepsen ☀️
> 
> this fic is complete aside from minor editing, so i’ll be updating about every 2 days depending on my work schedule. hope you enjoy! also, feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://geislieb.tumblr.com)/[twitter](http://twitter.com/larrytrain0r)!


	2. Chapter 2

“Roman? Roman!”

Roman groans, blinks open unwilling eyes, and lifts his head just far enough to squint at the digital clock on his nightstand. It’s only 1:00? _Fuck,_ how is he supposed to get any sleep when his mother comes pounding at his door any time she damn pleases?

“Go away!” Roman turns over in bed and pulls the comforter tight to his chest.

“Roman, get up,” his mother calls through the door. “We’re going to brunch.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me!”

“Jesus Christ, Roman! You’re coming!”

“Fuck off!”

“Watch your language and be out here in an hour. Otherwise, you can expect an adjustment to your allowance.”

“Ugh!” Roman wrestles the pillow out from beneath his head and lobs it at the wall. “Fuck!”

He peels himself out of bed and sheds his pajamas on his way to the bathroom. “An hour?” he mutters. “Only a fucking hour? Fuck…”

After taking a shower and applying his skincare routine, sunscreen included, Roman gets dressed. He pulls on navy blue shorts that he’s slightly outgrown since he bought but refuses to accept it, then a white cotton t-shirt that clings to his chest and stomach and makes the shape of his body as clear as if he weren’t wearing a shirt at all. He pushes the sleeves up to his shoulders to look more put-together, then wraps a white-and-navy-blue floral bandana around his neck, tying it in the front, to cover the nick from this morning. It isn’t bleeding anymore, but Roman doesn’t need anyone noticing it, especially his parents. He puts on his sandals, gold watch, and pink sunglasses before leaving his room and meeting his parents in the main area of the suite.

They’re sitting on either side of the en-suite kitchen table. They both look up sharply when they notice him.

“Roman,” his mother says. She gives him a smile that’s supposed to look pleasant.

“Mother,” Roman bites back.

Roman’s father checks his watch. “Right on time,” he says. He wears an equally affected smile. It nearly makes Roman gag. “Shall we?”

This is—Roman guesses—the reason for the chairs and tables on the roof. They arrive when most of the other guests are already eating and half of the tables are empty, and since his parents don’t seem to be put off by being late, Roman gathers that it’s a come-and-go sort of situation. The tables are set out with umbrellas, place settings, and four white lounge chairs each. Smiling their way through hellos—did they meet all of these people at the casino last night?—Roman’s parents make their way to a table near the edge, just by the safety railing.

Roman sits down in one of the lounge chairs, which dips under his body. When he looks past the railing, he can see the beach for miles. His father takes the seat across from him and his mother the one to his right, leaving the seat to his left empty. In the center of the table, there’s a plastic holder with laminated pamphlets, so Roman picks one up expecting a brunch menu. Instead, it’s a list of the resort’s activities for the week. Monday—complimentary rooftop brunch from 11–4, half-price drinks at the bar in the lobby from 5–8, family game night from 6–10 in conference room 4. Tuesday (today)—complimentary rooftop brunch, blah blah blah, singles’ night at the indoor pool from 7–10. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday—it’s all pretty much the same. Saturday and Sunday—no brunch, but there are shows at night, and don’t forget to visit our world-class casino!

(Well, his parents certainly didn’t.)

Roman puts the pamphlet back when a server approaches with a pitcher of mimosas. He attacks it as soon as it lands and pours himself a tall glass, then takes a few unrestrained gulps. It’s half for the alcohol and half because of the stifling weather, even under the umbrella.

“It’s fucking hot,” Roman whines. His mother glares at him. “Whose genius idea was it to have this on the fucking roof? It might as well be the surface of the fucking sun.”

“Roman,” his mother says, sickly-sweet. “You know better than to use language like that in public.”

Roman rolls his eyes, sipping his mimosa with slouched shoulders. He can already feel sweat collecting on the bandana around his neck. They don’t have to wait long before another server brings out plates for the table: French toast with berries and a pitcher of maple syrup, halved bagels with cream cheese, lox, hummus, and jam on the side, roasted potatoes with peppers and bacon. Roman takes some of each and makes his own plate while his parents do the same, then starts shoving food into his mouth right away.

The strained silence that settles is the same one that always does when the three of them are together.

Eventually, Roman asks, “You went to the casino last night?”

“Yes,” his father answers. “It was nice.”

“I went to the beach,” Roman says. Had they even noticed he was gone? “I met someone. A friend.”

Roman’s father’s mouth sets in a hard line. His mother raises her eyebrows. “A ‘friend?’” she asks.

“Just a friend.”

“Well, that’s your business,” she says, returning her attention to her plate. “I’m sure you know how to keep your ‘friends’ out of the public eye by now. I don’t want to hear about this again. People could eavesdrop.”

Anger flashes through Roman, but he shuts up. He doesn’t know why he brought it up in the first place; he wouldn’t have expected any other response. He looks back over the edge of the roof. A Ferris wheel in the distance catches his eye and he watches it for a few revolutions, before turning back to his plate and finishing off his French toast.

“Steel Pier,” his father says. “The Ferris wheel. Was that what you were looking at? Do you want to go?”

“No.” Roman wipes maple syrup from his mouth with his napkin, then tosses it roughly back onto the table.

“Roman, honey.” Roman’s mother puts a hand on his. He snatches it away. “I know how you feel, but we only care so much because we love you. We wouldn’t want things to be difficult for you.”

“Can you just fuck off already?” Roman drops his face into his hands. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You’re right,” his father says. “You shouldn’t have.”

After they finish eating, Roman’s parents take their mimosas and get up to mingle. Roman sulks at the table, bored out of his mind, fantasizing about pushing some of the particularly annoying guests off the roof. At one point, he gets up and dumps his mimosa over the railing, hoping that it’ll ruin someone’s day below. He neglected to bring his own room key, effectively trapping him there until his parents are ready to go—which isn't until brunch is over at 4.

Between going back to the room and getting his own key, getting to the beach, and walking along the shore until he finds the spot where he met Victor this morning, he doesn’t get there until 5:30. He scans the beach—it’s too late in the day for big crowds, but there are still a few people and families scattered around—until his eyes land on the back of a bleach-blonde head. “Victor!” Roman jogs over to where Victor sits in the sand, gazing into the water.

Victor climbs to his feet and approaches Roman. His brow is knit over round, brown eyes. Roman noticed the scars on Victor’s face before—one crossing his left eyebrow and a smaller, jagged one on his right cheek—and assumed they were from a fight, maybe from someone shattering a glass bottle against his face. Now, Victor’s oversized Hawaiian shirt is unbuttoned halfway to show a sliver of a scarred chest. Even though Victor’s hands are in his pockets, Roman can see the edges of pink scars crossing his tanned wrists too. There are even a few slashes on his neck.

Roman recoils. “Did something happen to you?”

“What? Oh.” Victor pulls his shirt aside to give Roman a better view. “You mean these? I did ‘em myself.”

“You cut yourself?”

“Not like you’re thinking. I have one for every soul I’ve helped pass on.”

“Holy shit.” Roman beams. “I love it! You have to tell me more.”

“Yeah. Whatever you want.”

“Oh, excellent. You want a drink? On me. Let’s go.” Roman swivels around and drapes his arm over Victor’s shoulders, pulling Victor along with him. Even when he lets go, Victor follows him up the beach to where decaying wooden steps lead to the boardwalk.

“You can blame my parents for me being late, by the way. They fucking made me go to brunch.” Roman turns to face Victor, who stares back blankly. “It’s a good thing you waited. Otherwise you might have missed me.”

“Yeah,” Victor says. “Wanted to see you.”  


* * *

  
It’s a long walk until Roman finds a restaurant to his liking. Victor doesn’t mind it. He walks behind Roman and watches Roman’s shoulders, where a patch of sweat on the back of his thin white t-shirt makes it stick to his skin. Every once in a while, Roman puts his arm back around Victor’s shoulders to pull Victor next to him. Eventually, they find a joint with outdoor tables that isn’t too crowded. Roman chooses a table by the edge of the boardwalk and Victor takes the seat across from him.

Even under the shade of the table’s umbrella, Roman doesn’t take off his sunglasses. He picks up a drink menu to examine it, so Victor takes one too and fidgets with the laminated edge. After a few minutes, a server comes to their table.

“Hi! What can I get for you, uh…” She recovers quickly, but Victor doesn’t miss the way she stumbles when she notices his scarred face and toothless grin. Roman smiles. Victor gets the feeling that he likes making people uncomfortable. “…gentlemen?”

Roman orders an appletini and Victor gets a whiskey sour. Victor doesn’t normally drink, and when he does it’s straight alcohol, but he vaguely remembers liking those. When the server asks about food, Roman orders mozzarella sticks and tells Victor to get whatever he wants. After a quick scan of the menu, that turns out to be a cheeseburger and fries.

“Sure thing,” the server says while she finishes scribbling the orders in her notepad. “I’ll just need to see your IDs for those drinks.”

Roman pulls a face.

“Sorry, my manager’s cracking down.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Roman pulls out his wallet and hands over his ID. The server looks it over and hands it back before turning to Victor.

“I, uh, don’t have an ID,” Victor says. He has an expired one and a few fakes in his motel room, but he didn’t anticipate the need to bring any.

“It’s fine.” Roman smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s with me.”

The server frowns. “Sir, I’m afraid that’s not how this works.”

Roman reaches into his wallet again and pulls out a $50 bill. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Victor watches the server look side to side, as if afraid of getting caught. Then, she takes the bill from Roman and shoves it in her apron pocket. “Coming right up,” she says, with a forced smile, before leaving to disappear back into the restaurant.

“Hah!” Roman says as soon as she’s out of earshot. “I love that. Most people think they’d never take a bribe until the opportunity comes staring them in the face. It would’ve been so easy for her to call her manager or tell me to fuck off! But no one can deny their true self, no matter how hard they try to hide it. And for only a fifty!”

Victor chuckles, looking down at the table before glancing back up at Roman. “You got money to throw around like that?”

Roman smiles. He gazes at Victor over the rims of his sunglasses, and Victor realizes finally that his eyes are blue. “I have money for whatever I want.”

The drinks come quickly. Victor guesses that they’re now priority customers. When Roman raises his martini glass to his lips, his fingernails shine with clear polish under the same sunbeam that glints off the gold rims of his glasses. Victor’s whiskey sour comes with a straw covered with half of a paper wrapper, which he removes and starts tearing to pieces. The drink itself is heavy on the whiskey, but that’s the opposite of a problem. “That thing you’re wearing on your neck,” Victor says. “That scarf thing. Is that ‘cause I cut you?”

“Yes.” Roman reaches up and adjusts it. “I had to hide it from my parents.”

“Sorry.”

Roman dismisses the sentiment with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine. Like I said, it was exciting. Just don’t fucking do it again.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

Roman’s smile is smug. “Good.”

When the food comes, Roman digs into his mozzarella sticks right away. “Thought you went to brunch,” Victor says.

“That was like three hours ago. Come on, Victor.”

Victor shrugs and turns to his cheeseburger. When he bites into it, he favors the left side of his mouth, like he's been doing ever since he got his teeth punched out in Philly last year.

“So what are you doing here?” Roman asks. He talks and eats at the same time, like he’s rushing through both. “In Atlantic City, I mean. You live here?”

“Kind of,” Victor says between bites. “Been shacked up in a motel a few miles away for a couple weeks. I don’t really live anywhere. I move around.”

“I’m here on vacation with my parents. I live in Gotham City.”

“No shit.” Victor can tell just by looking at Roman that they’re not from the same part of Gotham City, but the undercurrent is the same. As far as Victor’s concerned, everyone comes out infected. “I used to live there.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But some shit happened. So I left.”

“Ugh.” Roman sighs. “To get out of Gotham City. I’m jealous. What happened?”

“It’s, uh, kind of a long story.”

“Will I find it interesting?”

From what Victor knows about Roman so far, he doesn’t doubt that Roman will. “Yeah, I think so.”

Roman leans forward in his chair. “Then tell me.”

“Okay, so.” Victor sets down his burger in favor of fidgeting with his straw wrapper again. He hasn’t told anyone about this in years, and all the times he had, he hated the way people looked at him after. But Roman… Roman is different. Roman should be able to appreciate the story for what it is. So Victor starts with the part he wants to get out of the way. “When I was thirteen, my parents died.”

Roman’s eyes go wide. It makes Victor chuckle—he’s so eager. “Did you kill them?”

“No. Building collapse.”

“Oh.”

“They worked in the same building. For the Wayne Corporation. It was new, and there was some part of the foundation that’d been recalled, but the company used it anyway. Some shit like that. I dunno. Never really cared about the details. Doesn’t change what happened.”

“I fucking hate the Waynes.”

“Yeah. Me fuckin’ too. So there were lawsuits. Donations to the families. Shit like that.”

“I think I remember. My parents made a donation.”

Victor shrugs. “Maybe I got some of it. Anyway, between that and my parents’ inheritance, I ended up loaded. We weren’t rich or anything, but we had savings. For my college and stuff. So. Yeah. And I wasn’t supposed to get my hands on any of it until I turned eighteen. But we had this family lawyer, and she pulled some strings for me ‘cause she thought I was a good kid, so I got it when I was sixteen. Don’t know what the fuck she thought I was gonna use it for. Wanna know what I did with it?”

Roman nods.

“So, I got big into gambling after my parents died. Lots of places for that in downtown Gotham. It was fucking stupid, but I had shit else to do. Got so into it I couldn’t even hold onto my pocket change. So after I got the money, well. You can fuckin’ imagine.”

“You _lost_ it?”

Victor chuckles. “Lost it all in one night.” He pauses to take a few more bites of his burger. “So I decided to kill myself. I mean, the fuck else do you do? So I was on my way to the Gotham Bridge to do it there when some jackoff tried to mug me. I didn’t even fuckin’ have anything. But I guess he was nervous or something, ‘cause he was off his game.” Victor grins, and Roman leans in closer. “So I took his knife and stabbed him in the neck. First time I ever killed anyone. Felt fuckin’ good.”

“Hah!”

Victor lays his arm on the table and points to one of the scars on his wrist. It’s flat and more faded than most of the others, but still undeniably there. “And then I used the knife to give myself this.”

“Ew.” Roman wrinkles his nose, but his eyes stay intrigued. “Why do you do it?”

“I don’t know why. Just feels like I’m supposed to. Besides, I like it.”

Roman nods with understanding. “Did you get away with it?”

“Nah. I got caught.” Victor scratches the back of his head. “Self-defense didn’t fly ‘cause of the way I did it. But my lawyer said it was temporary insanity from grief. ‘Cause I lost all my fuckin’ money. And my parents I guess. So I got sent to Arkham instead of Blackgate. You know Arkham?”

“Of course I know Arkham. Ew.”

“Heh, yeah. But I only spent a year there, ‘cause there were budget cuts or something and I guess they decided I wasn’t that dangerous.”

Roman barks out a laugh. “Idiots.”

“Yeah.” Victor smirks. “So they let me go. Ever since then I’ve been moving around, taking jobs when I need cash. But I like it better when I pick ‘em myself.”

“How do you choose?”

“Don’t really have a method or anything. I like cute girls…” Victor shrugs, only finishing the thought because he’d be surprised if Roman wasn’t the same. “…cute guys.”

“Cute guys?” Roman sits back in his seat with a teasing smile and crosses his legs. “Like me?”

“Yeah.” Victor ducks his head to hide his smile. In the ensuing silence, he pops a few fries into his mouth. “So what’s your deal? Why’s a rich boy wanna kill his parents?”

“Ugh.” Roman screws up his face, downs the rest of the appletini he neglected while he listened to Victor’s story, and waves the server over for another. “Well…”

After lunch, they stroll along the boardwalk while Roman tells Victor some of the things his parents don’t talk about: like how, when he was eight, he got bitten by a racoon and never felt the same, and was never able to talk about it (until now); and how, when he was eleven, he stabbed his babysitter in the leg with a kitchen knife and doesn’t remember why, though he does remember the older boy’s scream and the blood that gushed over the floor and stained the grout between the tiles. His parents had to get the whole floor replaced.

“Ew.” Roman shudders. “But you know what, Victor?”

“What?”

A smile spreads across Roman’s face. Victor leans in close. “I never realized this until now, but maybe I hit his femoral artery! I never did see him again.” Roman starts to laugh, and Victor does too.

“You killed someone and didn’t even know it?”

“I missed out!”

“You’ll do it right next time.” Victor reaches out and knocks Roman’s wrist with his own. “I’ll make sure.”

Roman wraps his arm around Victor’s shoulders, tugging him close. “Oh, Victor. I think we were meant to be friends. Do you think so?”

It doesn’t escape Victor that Roman hasn’t once asked before touching him. If he didn’t like Roman so much, he might reconsider his plan from this morning—but the more he learns about Roman, the less that feels like an option.

“Yeah,” Victor says. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ here's a picrew of roman's outfit!](https://picrew.me/share?cd=ETSJ7ykjfT)


	3. Chapter 3

It’s earlier in the day, next time, when Roman escapes from his parents and meets Victor on the beach. The sun is at its highest, and even after Victor sheds his shirt, baring his scarred body to the crowded beach, he’s still practically drowning in sweat. Roman’s stolen two towels from his hotel and laid them out side-by-side in the stovetop-hot sand, one for Victor and one for himself.

It’s only really the second day Victor’s known Roman. One of the things he’s realized in that time is that Roman talks a _lot._ Another thing he’s realized is that Roman barely seems to notice whether Victor is listening. Maybe he just likes the sound of his own voice.

Which is fine, because Victor likes it too.

He gazes at Roman through half-lidded eyes, not listening to what Roman’s saying as much as the cadence of Roman’s voice—the slight British inflection that Victor suspects he puts on to sound sophisticated; the boredom that seems to ooze through everything he says, like he’s above it all; the way he hisses like an animal when he’s upset, and the ease with which he gets there. Victor desperately wants to see Roman hurt someone, to see what else Roman’s capable of.

Roman cocks his shoulders back. The cut on his neck has mostly healed by now, only visible when Victor looks closely. Roman squints out over the ocean through his pink sunglasses. The sun beats down on his bare chest, making his sunscreen glisten. No wonder he’s so pale. Victor can’t resist staring. Fading pink acne-marks dot Roman’s shoulders and back; a dusting of brown hair covers the peaks of his chest and trails down over a soft stomach. Victor’s eyes drag back upward, and he tamps down the urge to lap at the sweat beading on Roman’s collarbone through his sunscreen. Call it an oral fixation. Victor prefers to keep busy with his mouth.

He can’t do that, though. Not without scaring Roman off.

Instead, he pulls out a joint he’s been hanging on to all day from one pocket and his lighter from the other. Roman watches but doesn’t say anything, so Victor lights up and takes a pull.

“I’m not surprised,” Roman says.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Roman shrugs, a teasing smile on his lips. “Nothing.” He holds out his hand. “Well?”

“What, you want some?”

“Yes, I fucking want some.”

Victor passes Roman the joint and watches Roman’s lips wrap around it. His eyes drag over Roman’s hollowed cheeks, the slight stubble of his angled jaw, the beauty mark on his right cheek. God, Roman’s pretty. It’s not like Victor didn’t know that, but every time he looks at Roman it’s like seeing him anew.

Roman passes the joint back. Victor takes it, and savors the feeling of something Roman’s mouth has touched, touching his own. They pass it back and forth until it’s a stub, and then with hazy eyes, Roman takes Victor by the shoulders. Victor thinks Roman’s going to say something—and from the look in Roman’s eyes it seems important—but instead, Roman gets distracted tracing the ridge of a scar on Victor’s shoulder with his thumb. Victor hates to be touched on his bare skin, but he doesn’t mind when Roman does it. In this condition, he doesn’t really mind anything.

Later, when Roman decides he’s hungry, he leads Victor up to the boardwalk. That’s all they seem to be doing: Roman leading, Victor following. Victor never thought of himself as a follower, but with Roman it makes sense. He’s starting to think he would follow Roman’s spark anywhere.

In the past two days, Roman hasn’t passed up a single opportunity to buy Victor something. Now, Victor takes advantage and gets an ice cream and lemonade, while Roman gets himself a funnel cake. Roman gets powdered sugar smeared over his mouth and Victor pushes away the fantasy of licking it off, because it might just be too sweet to resist.

It’s not that he wants to kiss Roman. Or maybe it is. It’s been a while since Victor kissed anyone he didn’t plan on killing later. What he knows for sure is that he wants to look at Roman. He’d do it all day if he could. But in the evening, Roman has to leave—having reluctantly promised dinner with his parents—so Victor gets a tray of chili cheese fries and a Coke and eats alone on the beach, wondering what having a family like that would be like.

From what he knows about Roman’s parents, it’s probably not all it’s cracked up to be. Even though Victor doesn’t have a metric to understand something like that, he hates them for trying to dull Roman’s edge.

\--

The evening after, Roman has an idea.

They end up at a well-known pizza joint per Victor’s recommendation. The place is crowded, but the pizza is damn good. Victor offers to pay, but Roman just waves his hand and makes a face. It’s the kind of place where you can only get a whole pizza—so they get two, which come out on a double-decker round metal tray. The pizza burns the roof of Victor’s mouth. It’s worth it.

“We should go clubbing,” Roman says, partway through dinner, leaning close to Victor over the table. His eyes burn with excitement. “Oh! What if we went to a casino? You like gambling, right?”

“Uh.” Did Roman forget? “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

“What? Why not? It’ll be fun.”

“I told you. Once I get going, I can’t really stop.”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll watch you. Keep you from doing anything stupid.”

“Huh.” Victor knows he shouldn’t go, but it’s been years, and he wants to please Roman almost as much as he itches to be back in a casino. And if Roman watches him… it should be okay, right? “Yeah, okay.”

“Great!” Roman grins. “My resort has one, but I wouldn’t want to risk running into my parents. You know any good ones?”

Thinking back gives Victor chills. He suggests one near the beach that he used to frequent, and tells Roman about how they banned him, but that was before he changed his hair and started putting scars on his face, so he can probably get in.

After dinner, Roman tells Victor to wear something nice and leaves to get ready, with plans to meet back up at ten.

It’s not that Victor doesn’t care how he looks; that just isn’t his biggest priority right now. So when he gets back to his motel and digs through his duffel bag full of clothes, the nicest things he can find are a plain black button-down and his least threadbare pair of black slacks. They’re wrinkled from being packed away, so he hangs them out of his window in hopes that the heat will help straighten them out. When it’s almost time to meet Roman, he gets dressed in front of the cracked bathroom mirror and spends a few minutes deciding whether he should tuck his shirt in or leave it out. What would Roman prefer? He decides to tuck it in. Roman told him not to bring any money, but he takes a few hundred in cash from his last job just in case.   


* * *

  
Roman takes a shower as soon as he gets back, then stands in front of his closet with a towel around his waist to look through his clothes. It’s cooler outside at night, and the casino should have air conditioning (unless Victor’s taking him to a _really_ run-down place), so he chooses a flowing red long-sleeved button-down that he tucks loosely into shiny, black slacks. He leaves the top few buttons of his shirt undone. After carefully styling his hair and applying a trace of gold eyeliner, he puts on his gold watch and polished black oxfords and starts to make his way out.

He doesn’t expect to run into his parents. He finds them in the main area of the suite, cornering him between his bedroom and the suite’s front door, dressed up like they’re going out. Roman thought they _were_ going out; he expected them to leave while he was getting ready. “I thought you were leaving.”

“Not yet,” his mother says. “Are you going out?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“Casino.”

“The one downstairs?”

Roman considers telling the truth, then decides against it. “Yes.”

His father looks him over like he’s thinking about it—as if he could actually stop Roman from going. “Don’t drink too much.”

“Yes, sir.” Roman rolls his eyes as he shoves past them and out the door. On the way down to the lobby, he does his best to push his parents out of his mind. He’s going out with Victor and he’s _not_ going to let anyone else ruin his night.

After leaving the hotel, Roman heads to the boardwalk. From there, it only takes twenty minutes to get to where Victor suggested they meet. Victor is already there, waiting at one of the outdoor tables of a restaurant that’s closed for the day. He rises to approach Roman, in all-black clothes that are slightly too big on him but look surprisingly good (even though the blacks of his shirt and trousers are mismatched).

On the way to the casino, under the streetlights that almost make it bright as day, Victor examines Roman’s face. “Are you wearing makeup?” he asks.

“That a problem?”

“No. Looks nice.”

Roman grins. “Thank you.”

The walk to the casino is short, just as Victor promised earlier. As much as Roman hates tackiness, a place like this was exactly what he wanted. The name shines in gold lights on the front of the building, and inside, maroon carpet stretches out for what looks like miles beneath slot machines, card tables, and hundreds of drunken gamblers.

With a fake ID, Victor doesn’t have any trouble getting in. As they walk down a row of tables, Roman gropes for Victor beside him and wraps an arm around Victor’s shoulders. “I love it! You used to gamble here?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” Victor says. “Lots of rich people come here and get too drunk to hold onto their money.”

“Hah! Perfect.” This is where Roman belongs: surrounded by colors, money, and lights, and with his new favorite person by his side. “’Kay, so here’s what we’re gonna do. You help me win, and I don’t let you out of my sight. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Roman smiles. “So what should we play?”

Victor grins back. “You know how to count cards?”

Roman doesn’t, so Victor explains the rules while they search for a blackjack table with empty seats. Once they find a game to join, Victor stays glued to Roman’s side, with a hand on Roman’s shoulder as he whispers tips in Roman’s ear. After their first win, Roman gets a round of shots for the whole table and has two. The drinks are free, but the gesture is still appreciated. After their third win, he puts his arm around Victor, hugs him tight, and presses a kiss to Victor’s temple. Then, he grabs a shot from the tray of a passing server and tips it back—most of it spilling onto his chest, where it sticks to his chest hair and soaks into his shirt—and slams it down onto the table. “Whoo!”

Under Roman’s arm, Victor smiles up at him without bothering to hide his affection. It only adds to the high of winning. Still, Roman can’t help but notice that, the longer they play, the jumpier Victor gets. Roman doesn’t want it to ruin their night, so he gets Victor a whiskey sour and asks Victor if there’s anything else he wants to play.

Victor suggests poker, which is apparently one of his old favorites. At their next table, Roman makes sure to keep a hand on Victor’s shoulder so that Victor doesn’t wander off while he’s distracted. Halfway through their first game, and right after Roman throws down a three of a kind, someone taps him on the shoulder.

He whips around, ready to chew someone out, only to see a server offering him a drink—something with Coke and a lime. “Courtesy of the man two tables over,” the server says, nodding in the direction of a man who’s watching Roman with a smile. He’s easily in his fifties, with grey-streaked hair and a suit whose brand Roman recognizes and knows to appreciate.

Victor tenses under Roman’s hand. When Roman looks down at him, Victor is glaring daggers. Roman has to stifle a laugh. He normally wouldn’t go for a guy that old, but jealousy is cute on Victor, so he accepts the drink and winks back in the man’s direction. It turns out to be a rum and Coke, which isn’t Roman’s favorite, but the more he drinks and plays, the less he cares. He forgets about the man soon enough—it’s not like men flirting with him is unusual—and returns his attention fully to the game. He loses the first round when someone else plays a straight flush but recovers in the next. When Victor starts to get anxious again, Roman gets him another drink. All Roman wants is to have fun, and for Victor to have fun too. What’s so hard about that?

Victor stays quiet until he finishes his drink, then puts a shaky hand on Roman’s shoulder. “Roman. I gotta take a leak. Be right back.”

“No no no.” Roman grabs Victor by the shirt as Victor tries to walk away. “You’re not going anywhere without me. I’ll come with you. Just let me finish this round.”

Victor stays put, shifting from foot to foot while Roman finishes. If Roman wasn’t in such a good mood, he might chastise Victor for distracting him. He still wins, and it gives him a spring in his step as he accompanies Victor to the bathroom.

There, Roman plans to wait for Victor by the sinks. Instead of heading for the urinals like Roman expects, Victor paces back and forth across the tile floor. He looks up at Roman like he’s trying to say something but doesn’t know how, and that’s when Roman realizes—

“You don’t have to piss. You lied to me. Victor, what were you going to do?”

Victor’s shoulders slump. “Nothing.”

“Did you bring money with you?”

Victor looks up at Roman with round, pleading eyes. Roman wonders if Victor actually expects that to work. “No.”

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

“I’ll give it back later. I promise. Just give me the money.”

“Can I just play one game by myself?”

“No," Roman says. "Of course you can’t. You can keep playing with me.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Victor, give it to me.”

“Roman, please—”

“Victor!” Roman takes Victor’s face in both hands. He can feel Victor shaking. “Do we need to leave?”

“No—”

Victor startles when the door swings open. The man standing there feels familiar to Roman, and only after a moment does he realize it’s the man who sent him a drink earlier. When he notices Roman, he smiles.

“Hey, you—”

All at once, Victor swivels around, grabs the man by the back of his suit collar, and slams his head against the sink.

The man collapses unconscious to the floor. Right before Roman’s eyes, Victor’s body changes right back from lion to lamb: hands held behind his back, eyes wide and worried as they look up at Roman’s gaping face. There’s a spiderweb crack in the marble sink. Blood fills its crevices and drips down onto the floor.

For possibly the first time in his life, Roman is lost for words. So instead of saying anything, he takes Victor by his shirt collar, pushes him against the wall, and kisses him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for this chapter: very brief emetophobia mention

Victor doesn’t mean to do it, but he’s already on edge from the money burning in his pocket, and before he can think anything other than ‘he tried to take Roman from me,’ the man is bleeding on the floor and probably dead.

And now Roman is kissing him.

Victor doesn’t realize what’s happening at first. When Roman’s lips close over his, he’s too stunned to kiss back. He’s too stunned to do anything other than stand there, slack-jawed.

After a few seconds, Roman pulls away. “What?”

Victor says the first thing that comes to mind. “You said I was ugly.”

“What?”

“When we first met. You said I was ugly.”

“You were trying to kill me,” Roman says. "I obviously didn’t mean it.”

“Oh.”

Victor falls silent, while Roman stares at him expectantly. “Well?” Roman demands, like he hasn’t even considered that Victor might not want to. It’s a moot point, anyway. Victor wants to. “What are you waiting for? Kiss me.”

Victor puts his hand to the back of Roman’s head, brushes his fingers through the hair by Roman’s neck, and obeys.

Even though he’s been dying to get his mouth on Roman, Victor didn’t anticipate how good it would feel to do it like this. When Roman yanks Victor’s shirt from his belt to slide a hand over his scarred stomach, and presses himself flush against Victor’s body so that Victor can feel just how _excited_ he is, all the blood in Victor’s brain threatens to rush downward. But before Victor can let his mind go blank, he remembers the situation at hand and nudges Roman’s mouth away. “We should get out of here.”

“We can do it right here,” Roman says.

“No. The body.”

“Ugh.” Roman steps back, freeing Victor from the wall. Victor crouches to the floor to take the man’s pulse and—satisfied that he is, in fact, dead—braces himself behind the body and lifts him from underneath his arms.

“You wanna give me a hand?” Victor asks.

“Ew. No.”

Victor starts to drag the body toward the long row of stalls. “Whatever you say, princess.”

Roman frowns. “Hey.”

Victor doesn’t really need the help; he’s done this on his own dozens of times. He props the body up on a toilet in the farthest stall from the door, then locks it from the inside and climbs out under the stall door. Then, he wipes the blood from the sink and floor with paper towels, and washes his hands because he expects Roman to want him to. “Okay. See anything I missed?”

“Fingerprints?” Roman asks.

“Lots of people have my fingerprints. I’m not worried about it.”

Roman smiles, wide and bright. “Then let’s go.”

After leaving the bathroom together and collecting Roman’s winnings, with Roman vibrating with excitement the whole way, they make their way through the casino to leave. Roman says goodbye to some of the people they were gambling with, with a friendly façade that, in this state, Victor finds impressive that Roman’s able to maintain.

Once outside, Roman takes Victor’s hand and carries him away at a run. Victor would tell Roman they don’t have to run—that the body probably won’t be found for a while—but he likes how giddy Roman is, and he likes the way Roman’s holding his hand. Roman doesn’t stop until they’re on the beach, where he suddenly lets go of Victor’s hand and sends Victor stumbling a few steps ahead.

Victor catches his breath. A slow smile spreads across his face and he can’t help but laugh, remembering the sound of that man’s head slamming down against the marble sink. Roman starts to giggle too, and soon Roman is laughing into the night like he’s just heard the funniest joke of his life. After he calms down, he wipes tears from his eyes. “Fuck, Victor. You’re incredible.”

Victor grins up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Roman takes Victor’s face in both hands and presses a long kiss to Victor’s forehead. More laughter comes bubbling up out of Roman, and it makes Victor feel warmer inside than he has in a long time. Gradually, Roman falls silent. As if he can’t resist, he swipes his thumb across Victor’s bottom lip, shivering when Victor grazes it with his tongue. With a whimper, he captures Victor’s mouth again. “I need you. Really.”

“You can have me. I’m all yours.”

Roman takes Victor’s hand and pulls him nearer to the ocean with a wicked look in his eyes. Where the tide laps at the shore, he drops to the ground and tugs Victor down beside him. His hands go to Victor’s shirt right away, unbuttoning it and pushing it off his shoulders to get an eyeful of Victor’s body. “Your scars are so fucking sexy,” Roman says. “Where will you put the new one?”

There are places on Victor’s body that could use more scars: his stomach, his arms, his calves. He could also put more on his chest, where he likes putting them most. He only ever puts his scars where it feels right to do it in the moment—but now, what feels right is whatever Roman wants. “You pick.”

Hunger flicks across Roman’s eyes as he peruses Victor’s body. He puts his hand to Victor’s stomach, which shudders with Victor’s breathing, and bends down to press a kiss just beneath Victor’s left breast. When he pulls away, the imprint of his lips feels cool on Victor’s skin. “Right there.”

“Yes,” Victor breathes, because he feels suddenly like he’s never wanted anything this much, and because he knows that once he gets home he’ll cut himself with one hand while the other is shoved inside his boxers.

Roman hooks his thumbs in Victor’s belt and crawls closer. His lips ghost across Victor’s and Victor takes them, kissing Roman deep while Roman unbuttons and shrugs off his own shirt. Victor puts a hand to Roman’s chest, feeling over the soft hair there. As much as Victor wants to touch—to scratch and kiss and lick every inch of Roman’s body that Roman will allow—he knows by now that Roman’s like a bomb, ready to explode from even the smallest wrongdoing. “Where can I touch you?”

“Anywhere you want,” Roman says. “I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.”

Victor doesn’t doubt that. He moves slowly at first, pressing Roman gently into the sand and climbing on top of him. Either Roman’s hard again, or he’s been hard this whole time. When Victor attacks Roman’s mouth, it’s more of a feast than a kiss. Roman moans into it, sweet and unrestrained. If there’s anyone around, they’ll hear, but Victor couldn’t care less, not when Roman is laid out shirtless beneath him. Victor pulls away from the kiss and, struck by a sudden desire, drags his tongue across the beauty mark on Roman’s right cheek.

Roman wrinkles his nose. “Ew.” He diverts Victor’s mouth with another kiss, then tips his head back in an invitation that Victor greedily accepts. Victor presses a kiss to Roman’s pulse point before licking a stripe up his neck, making Roman gasp. The idea of breaking skin crosses his mind, but the image of Roman upset chases it away. When did Victor get so _considerate?_

Victor’s lips pause against Roman’s jaw, just long enough for Roman to notice. “What is it?” Roman asks.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Roman scoffs. “I’m not _that_ fragile.”

“No. I pretty much always want to hurt people. Just not you.”

“That’s… oddly sweet.” Roman rubs his thumb over the scar on Victor’s right cheek, then breaks into a laugh. It makes Victor laugh too. “Don’t worry about that,” Roman says. He takes Victor’s hand and threads their fingers together, then guides it between his legs, groaning softly when Victor cups him through his slacks. “Worry about this.”  


* * *

  
Roman emerges from his room for brunch the next morning, tired-eyed with his hair still wet from the shower. With nothing but food on his mind, he’s taken aback when he steps into the main area of the suite to find both of his parents staring at him with horrified looks.

“Roman,” his mother says. “You need to button your shirt.”

Roman looks down. There are only two buttons undone at the top. He always wears his shirts like this. “What? Why?”

“Go look in the mirror.”

Pouting, Roman disappears back into his room to look in the bathroom mirror. _Oh,_ he thinks. One of the hickeys Victor gave him peeks out from his open shirt, right on the edge of his breast. He stifles a laugh before his parents hear, then fastens one more button, planning to undo it as soon as his parents aren’t looking. Before joining them again, he makes sure none of his other marks from last night are immediately visible. Remembering Victor putting them there makes his skin tingle everywhere.

It’s Saturday, and since the resort doesn’t serve brunch on weekends, they end up at a seaside restaurant recommended by the concierge. After a strained meal with his parents—who don’t ask about last night, because of course they don’t—Roman splits at the earliest opportunity and heads to Steel Pier.

(Last night, after washing off the evidence of their tryst in the sea (except for apparently the hickeys covering Roman’s chest), Roman took Victor’s hand while they stood naked in the waist-high water, saw the Ferris wheel in the distance, and had an idea.)

Victor’s holding two ice cream cones when Roman arrives and finds him leaning against the railing of the boardwalk. He’s halfway through eating one with a caramel shell. The other one is melting already under its chocolate sprinkles.

“Got you sprinkles,” Victor says. “Wasn’t sure what you liked.”

Roman takes the offered cone. It’s cute, Victor trying to treat him. “Sprinkles are fine,” Roman says. He smiles at Victor, and Victor basks in it like an animal in the sun. “So can I see it?”

“What?”

“Your new scar.”

“Oh. Yeah. ‘Course.” With his free hand, Victor unbuttons his shirt most of the way and pulls it aside to reveal a bandage taped over the exact spot Roman requested last night.

Roman knew Victor was going to do it, but seeing the evidence still sends a shiver up his spine. He reaches out to touch, trailing fingertips over the bandage, where blood soaks through and stains the visible side brown-red. He swipes his thumb over the adhesive edge, peeling it back slightly. “Can I?” he asks. Victor nods. Slowly, Roman works the adhesive off of Victor’s skin, then peels the bandage back halfway. “Ugh. Beautiful.”

“All for you.”

Roman replaces the bandage and smooths it over, then holds Victor’s ice cream while Victor buttons his shirt again. When Victor takes his ice cream back and bites into the caramel shell, Roman notices for the first time that he only uses the left side of his mouth. “Why don’t you fix your teeth?” Roman asks. “I would’ve thought you’d make enough money for that.”

“I probably do.” Victor shrugs and turns his cone over to bite at its other side. “But I have better things to spend money on, and I don’t like dentists.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Why, you don’t like it?”

“Well it’s a fucking eyesore,” Roman says. “But I do kind of like it.”

Really, Roman likes everything about Victor that would get him exiled from Gotham’s miserable version of high society. It’s kind of a fuck-you to his parents, but it’s mostly just because he likes Victor.

Victor smiles up at Roman in that lovesick way he does, and then gazes over the pier. “You want to go on a rollercoaster or something?”

“Ew. No. I’d throw up. I want to go on the Ferris wheel.”

After getting tickets at the booth, they finish their ice cream while waiting on the Ferris wheel line. It may be a stupid whim, but Roman’s been dead set on it since last night, so not even the long wait in the sweltering heat can deter him. When they reach the front of the line, they get a car by themselves. Roman wraps his arm around Victor’s waist and pulls him close as they start to climb toward the sky.

Victor grins, the corner of his mouth pulling sweetly over his missing teeth. He’s irresistible, so Roman doesn’t try to resist. Instead, he leans in for a kiss. Victor meets him halfway.

“My parents would kill me,” Roman says. “If they saw me do that in public.”

“Good thing they don’t have to know.”

Roman laughs. “I should mention it. Just to see what they do.”

“Do they know about me?”

“They don’t want to. I tried to tell them about you right after we met and they blew their lids.”

“Were you gonna tell them what I did?”

“Fuck no.” Roman slumps against the edge of the car, leaning his elbow over the railing and looking out over the pier below. “All I wanted to do was mention the one fucking interesting thing that’s happened to me in way too fucking long! But no, I can’t talk about shit because it’s bad for our image. Ugh. I really think they’d rather find out you _had_ killed me than find out that we’re, well. Whatever we are. They’d look better that way. Fake fucks.”

“Roman.” Victor rests a hand on Roman’s shoulder. “It’s okay. We can get rid of them. Just say the word. You know I’d do it for you.”

“I know, I know. But I told you. I want to do it myself.”

Victor grins. “We could do it together.”

“Oh.” The idea puts butterflies in Roman’s chest that come bubbling up out of him in a laugh. “I like that idea.”

“I thought you would.”

Roman cups Victor’s cheek over the jagged scar. “Ugh, come here,” he says, and kisses Victor again.  


* * *

  
Neither of them brought swim trunks. It doesn’t matter when it’s late enough that there’s no one else around. Roman kisses Victor mad on the beach and strips off his clothes like he has nothing to hide, so Victor does too, and it’s the second time in two nights they’ve ended up in the ocean like this. Roman takes Victor’s hands and takes him deep enough into the water that any passersby won’t notice their nakedness, then wraps his arms around Victor’s bare waist to pull him close and kiss him again.

Roman’s mouth is hungry and intent on what it wants. What it wants is Victor, and Victor happily gives in. He’d let Roman devour him if Roman wanted—but if Roman just wants to kiss and hold him, that’s fine too, because being allowed to touch the softness of Roman’s body is exciting on its own.

 _Fucking sap,_ Victor thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind. He doesn’t even care. It’s Roman, after all.

Roman holds Victor close, chest to chest, hips to hips. Victor caresses Roman’s shoulders with saltwater-damp hands, then slides them up to tangle in Roman’s hair. Under the water, Roman’s arousal presses unmistakably against Victor’s hip, and Victor isn’t surprised in the least. He grins against the kiss and Roman chases his lips, capturing them back. “Hey,” Victor says. Roman kisses him again, only pulling away when Victor puts a hand to his face. “Let’s get out of the water. Wanna get my mouth on you.”

“Mm.” Roman’s eyes slip closed. “Fuck yes.”

Later—after washing off in the ocean once again and putting their sandy clothes back on on the beach—Roman tells Victor: “I can’t see you tomorrow. I have plans with my parents all day.”

“Oh,” Victor says. He’s gone years without spending time with anyone for anything other than work (or fun, but not like this), but it shouldn’t be news to him that Roman is different. “You actually want to?”

“We’re going to an art museum in the afternoon. And a play in the evening. They’re the only parts of this whole fucking vacation I actually want to do.”

“Oh,” Victor says, again. “Have fun.”

“Thank you.” Roman reaches out to Victor’s hand, trailing his finger across Victor’s palm. “I’ll see you the day after?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

“Good. By that ice cream shop, sometime in the afternoon? I don’t know when I’ll be free.”

“Yeah,” Victor says, “that’s fine.”

When Roman leaves, back to his hotel and his parents, Victor drives back to his motel under the lonely night and tries to push away his disappointment. It’s only one day, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i originally had this fic tagged as "non-explicit sex" but my beta has informed me that something in this chapter might actually be explicit. oops.

Tomorrow rolls around. Victor gets up at his usual time, then gets dressed in clothes he doesn’t plan to impress anyone with and walks a block away to his usual diner for a pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich (living up north, he used to call it Taylor ham, but whatever). Foregoing his car for the day, because the walk really isn’t that long, he heads on foot with his sandwich toward the area of the city where he normally spends time with Roman. He doesn’t think about why he’s going there, just that he wants to get out for the day. He devours his sandwich in minutes, then holds onto the wrapper in his pocket until he gets near the shore, where he tosses it in a boardwalk trashcan.

Walking aimlessly along the boardwalk, over detached and splintering planks that catch on his sandals, he wonders if today might be a good day to have some fun. Roman might like it if Victor showed up next time with a brand new scar. Maybe he would put it on his face or neck and leave it uncovered, so that Roman would notice right away. Would Roman like that? Or would he be upset that he missed the chance to watch?

Victor has never killed for anyone other than himself (even in the casino, he knows it was just because of his own jealousy, which he isn’t ashamed to admit because he’s sure Roman’s charm could make anyone feel that way), and he’s never felt compelled to share his killing or his ritual after. But thinking about it now, it wouldn’t feel right to do it without Roman there, or at least without Roman aware of it. It has to feel right.

Victor decides not to. Besides, he just did one two days ago, and he doesn’t need more than one every few days. Instead, he takes back to the streets, because thinking about Roman gave him an idea. He feels guilty about it, because this might upset Roman too, but he thinks Roman _probably_ won’t mind. If he does, Victor will just have to figure out how to make it up to him.

Victor has a pretty good memory. It comes in handy in his line of work. Names, addresses, locations. So he remembers, from when he attacked Roman that first morning, the name on the hotel key card that fell out of Roman’s pocket. He spends a good part of the afternoon wandering around Atlantic City looking for it. Roman told him once about the rooftop brunches, and how they practically had him sitting within inches of the sun, so Victor gives preference to the taller buildings when he scans over their names, looking for the right one.

When finally he finds the name he’s looking for, it’s far in the distance. He makes the trek with determination, in worn sandals that are used to this kind of treatment, and realizes when he gets near the front doors that he has no idea what the fuck he’s going to do next.

He can’t go inside, since he doesn’t actually have any business being there. They’d escort him out within seconds. He could sneak in, but Roman might not even be there, so what would be the point? He’s come too close to leave, though, so instead of going inside, he plops down in a patch of hedges belonging to the hotel across the street and watches the front doors.

It’s boring as hell and a stupid idea, but it’s not like Victor has anything better to do. When a woman’s key card falls out of her purse on her way inside, he sneaks back across the street and picks it up in case he needs it, then returns to his spot. Every time a car pulls up to the front doors, Victor perks up. When a black Bentley pulls up, and Victor sees the back of a familiar head and shoulders emerge from the passenger side backseat, his heart leaps and he puts his only-half-realized plan into action.

Victor runs across the street. He slips inside the hotel with his stolen key card in hand so no one hassles him, and just barely catches a glimpse of the Sionis family as they disappear inside an elevator. Victor mentally rifles through his options, then uses the key card to get into the stairwell. He’s pretty good at running; he’s had to do a lot of it in his life. So he sprints up the stairs, checking each floor for opening elevator doors. When he reaches the sixth, he’s too late to see the Sionises exit the elevator but he’s just in time to see them go into their room.

Victor emerges from the stairwell. He creeps down the hallway toward their room, notes the number on the door, and counts the number of rooms between theirs and the elevators. Before, he didn’t have an endgame for his plan. Now, he does. He takes the elevator back down to the lobby, then leaves the hotel to figure out, from the outside, which room is Roman’s.

Victor is pretty good at this, too. With a room number and rough directions, he’s snuck into plenty of hotel rooms in the course of his job. He’s also climbed plenty of balconies—like he’s doing now, as soon as he picks out the right room—and even though he scrapes his knees and palms on the way, he never slows. Victor suspects the suite has two bedrooms, which means Roman’s balcony could be one of two.

The first balcony Victor pulls himself onto has its curtains open. If it turns out to be the wrong one, he’s ready to leap over to the other balcony before Roman’s parents see him, but when he peeks inside, Roman is sitting there at his desk.

Perfect.

Victor knocks on the door.  


* * *

  
Roman’s reapplying his eyeliner in the mirror, under the natural light from outside, when a knocking on the glass startles the pencil out of his hand. His eyes pass over the mirror to check his face for errant marks on their way to the door, where Victor stands there with his head tilted in a silent, ‘can I come in?’ A smile breaks across Roman’s face. When he gets up to slide the door open, he pulls Victor into a hug right away. “Fuck,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about you. How did you get up here?” Then, Roman pulls away, frowning. “Ew. You’re all sweaty.”

“I climbed the balconies,” Victor says. “That’s why I’m sweaty.”

“You _climbed the balconies?_ Did anyone see you?”

Victor shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck. I don’t even care that you’re sweaty! Can you believe that?” Roman takes Victor’s face in both hands and kisses his lips. “Did you follow me?”

“Yeah.”

“You _stalked_ me?”

“I guess.”

“Ugh, I don’t even care.” Roman takes Victor’s shirt in his hands, falls back onto the bed, and tugs Victor down on top of him. He scoots far enough back that his legs aren’t hanging off the edge, meeting each one of Victor’s eager kisses halfway. Eventually, he nudges Victor’s face away. “I don’t have long,” Roman says. “We’re leaving for the play soon.” Victor starts to sit up, but Roman grabs him and tugs him back down. “I didn’t say I wanted to _stop.”_

“I don’t want to, either.” Victor puts his mouth to Roman’s, grins, and then captures Roman’s lips again.

Roman slides one hand around Victor’s waist to rest on his back. He can feel the sweet soaking through Victor’s shirt. If he ends up smelling like Victor after this, his parents will just have to deal with it. He settles his other hand over the back of Victor’s neck, where damp buzzed hair meets hot skin, and keeps that hold while he licks into Victor’s mouth. Victor doesn’t usually make much noise, but Roman’s kiss makes him groan.

With some effort, Victor fits his hand between the mattress and Roman’s body. It moves down over the small of Roman’s back, then settles over his ass and squeezes, sending a shiver up Roman’s spine. “Victor,” he whines. “Don’t tease.”

“Not teasing.” Victor peppers kisses down Roman’s neck, making Roman’s hips buck up against his own. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“We don’t have time for that.” Roman pushes Victor playfully off and Victor flops down into the mattress. Roman’s body goes lax as he catches his breath. When he lifts his head to drop his eyes into his lap, the evidence of Victor being there is clear as day. “Shit.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Victor says. “I’ll be quick. Promise.”

“Ugh. No. I like to shower after. I don’t have time.” Roman peels himself out of bed and goes over to the bathroom sink. He splashes cold water on his face, careful not to disturb his eyeliner, and stands there in front of the mirror with his eyes closed until his situation dissipates enough to face his parents. Then, he returns to bed and sits a full two feet away from Victor.

“Don’t you dare fucking kiss me again,” Roman says. Then, against his own warning, he pecks Victor on the lips. “Will you come back later?”

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

“Oh! Do you want to stay? So you don’t have to climb up again?”

“That’d be good.”

“Good.” A smile spreads over Roman’s face. “You can have whatever you want from the minibar. My parents will assume it was me, if they even notice. The TV remote’s in the nightstand drawer.”

“Got it.”

“And you should take a shower.” Roman winks.

Just then, his door rattles with a knock. “Roman! It’s time to go!”

“See you later?” Victor says, with a crooked grin that Roman leans in to kiss off his face.

“See you.” Roman hops up from the bed to join his parents. He maneuvers the bedroom door carefully, so that they don’t see Victor inside.  


* * *

  
Victor hasn’t eaten since breakfast, so the minibar is an appealing option, but he decides to take his shower first. He strips off his clothes and leaves them by the sink, because he doesn’t know what else to do with them, before going into the separate room where the shower and toilet are. (He also hasn’t had the chance to piss since leaving home this morning, so he takes care of that first.) The shower knob takes him a few minutes to figure out, but he gets it eventually. The water steams behind the curtain and Victor adjusts the temperature before stepping inside and luxuriating in the feeling of the hot water on his sore muscles from the climb up here.

The little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash are half empty. Roman must have been using them. Victor washes his short hair and then uses the conditioner, because even though he doesn’t think it makes a difference, maybe Roman will notice. Then he uses the body wash, careful not to use too much in case Roman wants to shower before he can get more, and makes sure he’s clean to Roman’s liking.

And then he just stands in the shower, because it’s nice not to worry about running out of hot water, and Victor’s still a guy who can appreciate small comforts in life.

Water cascades over the swell of Victor’s breast and picks up blood from the cut beneath. He places his palm flat against the wound and pushes, feeling its sting. There’s no one around to hear him, so he moans. From everything Victor knows about Roman, there’s no way he would want to put his mouth on the bleeding wound, but the memory of Roman’s lips kissing that spot combined with the fantasy of his lips wet with Victor’s blood makes Victor’s cock twitch. He has no qualms about jerking off in someone else’s shower—and he’s sure he can get it up again by the time Roman gets back—so he takes himself in one hand, feels over the recent cut on his hip with the other, and thinks of Roman’s mouth and the taste of his cock and what he might get to do to Roman later.

When he’s out of the shower, Victor realizes he has no clean clothes, so he wraps a towel around his waist and wears it into the main area of Roman’s bedroom. He drops to a squat in front of the minibar and picks out a small bottle of white wine, two Hershey’s bars, and a bag of salt and vinegar chips, then flops down into Roman’s bed.

Roman said he’d be back by eleven. The digital clock on the nightstand tells Victor it’s 8:15. He finds a movie to watch, makes a mental note to turn the TV off before they’re due back so Roman’s parents don’t hear anything, and digs into his wine and snacks, unconcerned with getting crumbs in Roman’s bed.  


* * *

  
Roman is lucky that his parents are used to him shutting himself away in his bedroom every time they return to the suite. When they get back from the play at 10:45 and Roman disappears without a word, they don’t suspect anything out of the ordinary. Even though Roman knows Victor will be there, the sight of Victor lying in his bed, his scarred body naked except for the towel wrapped loosely around his waist, makes Roman’s heart race a little faster.

Victor sits upright, propping himself up with his palms flat on the bed. He grins his crooked, teasing smile, and asks, “How was the play?”

“It was good.” Roman climbs onto the bed, kneeling between Victor’s parted legs. “I’ll have to tell you about the museum, later. I didn’t get to before.”

“Later,” Victor echoes.

Roman nods. “Later.”

Roman goes in for a kiss, but Victor halts him with a gentle hand on his cheek. “I wanna show you something.”

Roman licks his lips. His eyes travel again over the naked parts of Victor’s body before returning to Victor’s face. “Show me.”

Victor peels back the towel, baring himself to Roman. (He’s starting to get hard already, just from Roman looking at him, because he has a hair trigger for this sort of thing.) “I didn’t tell you before,” he says. He runs his finger over the cut on his hip. Even though it’s mostly healed, it’s shed some blood on his towel in the time he was lying down. “I made this the night we met.”

“For me? But you didn’t kill me.”

“For the body I was getting rid of. But I was thinking about you.”

A grin comes over Roman’s face. “You were?”

Victor nods. “Touched myself too. Thinking about you.”

Roman takes in a sharp breath. He reaches up and trails fingers down Victor’s face, from temple to jaw.

“Did it in the shower while you were gone, too.”

“When I first met you,” Roman says, “I didn’t think you’d do that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“It seemed like killing was all you needed.” Roman laughs. “I could tell you liked me, but I didn’t think it was like _that.”_

“It’s like that.”

“I know.” Roman pecks Victor’s lips, pulls a way with a smile, and then kisses Victor more deeply, licking into his mouth right away. Victor moans and grabs a fistful of Roman’s shirt. “Not too loud!”

“Sorry.”

Pushing Victor’s mouth open again with his own, Roman grazes Victor’s back teeth with his tongue and tastes chocolate. He laughs into the kiss, leaving Victor confused, then takes a handful of a scarred and muscled thigh and pushes Victor down into the bed.

Victor lands with a softer moan—good, watching his volume. Roman settles on top of him, sliding greedy hands up and down Victor’s sides and over the ridges of Victor’s scarred skin. Victor is, unequivocally, like no one else; his body is, unequivocally, like no one else’s. Roman moves between kissing Victor’s mouth and his neck, lapping over his pulse point and the angry red scars there. The hickeys he sucks into Victor’s neck might not stand out against the scars, but at least Roman will know they’re there (and Victor will, too).

Roman kisses Victor’s mouth again, then pulls away with a soft noise of his own. “Victor?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck me?”

It’s cute, Roman thinks, the way Victor’s breath hitches in his throat. He’s got it bad. Which is fine, because Roman does too. “Yes.”

Roman sits up, panting, and brushes his hair back into place with his hands. Victor lets out a wordless, strangled noise at the loss of Roman’s weight on him. “I have to go down to the lobby for… you know.”

“What about your parents?”

“I’ll tell them I drank all the wine in the minibar and I’m getting more. They’ll believe me.” Roman smooths down his shirt, then adjusts himself in his pants. “I’ll have to shower first. When I get back. Can you wait that long?”

“I can wait that long,” Victor says.

With a wide smile, Roman climbs out of bed, checks himself in the mirror, and leaves Victor alone for the second time tonight (but not for long).


	6. Chapter 6

It starts with an innocuous plan, shared over another burning-hot rooftop brunch.

(It’s been days now, since Victor snuck into Roman’s hotel room. They haven’t tried to spend another day apart since. It wouldn’t have worked, anyway.)

“I’m thinking about going to Las Vegas,” Roman says. Victor told Roman last night about a short time when he lived in Vegas, after taking his broken-down car cross-country for the hell of it. He got banned from almost as many casinos there as he’s banned from here, almost got a knife to his dick by an enforcer who turned out to be more serious than Victor thought, and ended up puttering back to the East Coast on a steady diet of energy drinks, fast food, weed, and gas station snacks, without much to show for his trip other than eight new scars scattered over his arms, hips, and the places on his back that he could reach.

(When he told Roman, he lifted up his shirt and pulled down the waistband of his shorts in the middle of the boardwalk to show Roman which ones he meant.)

Roman’s answer to most of this, like his answer to most of Victor’s stories, was: ‘Ew! I love it!’

“Just for a couple of days,” Roman continues. “I’d like to see it. Maybe later this year. I would pay for it myself,” he adds, meaning that he would use the allowance his parents already give him. “That would be fine, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” his father says. “That won’t do. Not when you’re returning to college in the fall.”

Roman blinks. “What? No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Your mother and I pulled some strings at Gotham University.”

“You… you what? Gotham University?”

“Princeton would have been ideal,” his mother adds. “But unfortunately, they wouldn’t reenroll you due to your… poor performance.”

“My grades were fine,” Roman says softly.

“Your grades were fine,” his father says, “because we paid for them to be fine.”

None of them has ever said that aloud before. Roman’s face burns with shame.

Don’t cry, he thinks. Fuck. Don’t fucking cry.

“When were you going to tell me?” he squeaks.

His father dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. “It’s not important. Now, you do have a choice.”

“I do?”

“If you don’t want to finish your schooling at Gotham University starting this fall, you can start your new job at Janus Corp. in August instead, which I know you don’t want to do.”

Roman’s heart drops into his stomach all over again. “I don’t.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.” Roman’s father smiles, and it makes Roman feel sick.

There’s only one way Roman knows how to fight back. He stands from his seat and swipes his arm across the table, knocking everything in its path to the floor. The sound of plates and glasses shattering turns heads. “Fuck both of you!” he shouts, then whips around to face everyone else on the roof. “Fuck all of you!”

Roman makes a beeline for the stairs that lead back into the hotel. It isn’t until he’s alone that he lets his tears start to fall.

Fucking parents. Fucking Gotham University. _Fuck._  


* * *

  
Roman doesn’t show up to the agreed upon spot on time. Victor isn’t worried about it; it sometimes takes Roman a while to get away from his parents. Victor sits by the shore watching the tide wash over his shoeless feet, just to have something to do. He doesn’t put cuts on his feet—it makes it harder to do his job—but he gets them by accident sometimes, like when he scraped the arch of his foot on a jagged rock in the ocean the other day. The saltwater stings in his wound; he likes how it feels.

He was with Roman at the time. Ever since Roman first dragged Victor into the water that night after the casino, he seems to want to go in every time they hang out. Victor expected to do that today, but Roman’s not fucking here.

Fifteen minutes pass—that’s nothing. Thirty minutes—that’s normal. An hour—where the fuck is Roman?

Victor puts his shoes back on and starts to head up the beach. Could it be that Roman doesn’t want to see him anymore? Victor racks his brain for anything he might have done wrong last time. He knows that anything could set Roman off. Still, he can’t think of anything. Roman left him last night with a stolen kiss under the boardwalk lights, looking as happy as Victor’s ever seen him.

It’s possible that Roman forgot, but Victor doesn’t think he would (unless Roman means a lot more to him than he does to Roman). Something must be wrong. It’s a good thing Victor already knows where Roman’s hotel is. He heads in that direction, with his feet squelching loudly in his sandals until the sun dries them out.

Once there, Victor braces for a workout. He hoists himself up onto the second floor balcony, using the ledge of the first floor window as a foothold, then climbs each balcony railing up to the sixth floor. When he gets to the right floor and double-checks that it’s the right room, the curtains are drawn closed behind the sliding glass door.

Victor brushes the loose bits of concrete from his mottled palms and knees. Then, he knocks.

There’s no answer.

He knocks again. Another few minutes pass, and he turns to leave. Just as he’s about to climb back over the railing, the curtains open. Victor drops right back onto the balcony to see Roman standing there, watching Victor through the glass with puffy, red eyes.

He’s been crying. From the look of him, he’s been crying for a long, long time. Despite the comforter wrapped around his shoulders and clutched tight by his chest, Roman is still in his clothes: shirt unbuttoned halfway and still tucked into his shorts in haphazard places. Roman sniffles and wipes his nose on the back of his hand before frowning at himself. Then, he slides the door open.

Victor takes the wordless invitation and steps inside. Roman closes the door behind him. When Victor starts to rush to Roman—wanting to soothe, wanting to fix—Roman takes a step back and scowls. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Okay,” Victor says softly. “Okay.”

“I’m going back to bed.”

Roman climbs back into bed and takes the comforter with him, wrapping himself up like a cocoon.

“Can I sit with you?” Victor asks.

It’s a minute before Roman answers. “Yes.”

Victor climbs into Roman’s bed. He rests his back against the headboard and pulls his knees to his chest. The bed has easily enough space that he can leave Roman alone. Within an hour, Roman’s crying dwindles to silence and he falls into a deep sleep. He doesn’t even stir at the sound of the suite’s front door opening, or at the subsequent knocking at his bedroom door. Victor doesn’t answer either.

“He must be asleep,” says a woman outside the door.

“Sloth,” a man replies with a sigh. “The mother of all vices.”

If Victor could kill them right now, he would. He burns with the desire so deeply that he feels like he could scorch a hole through Roman’s sheets. But they’ve talked about it. They’ve talked and talked about it, and it still hasn’t been done, but that doesn’t mean Victor would go behind Roman’s back. It’s for Roman, after all.

When Roman eventually wakes, Victor doesn’t say anything. Roman squirms in his comforter, roughly tossing and turning, before his eyes peek open and land on Victor. “Victor?”

“Yeah,” Victor says.

“You’re still here?”

“I wouldn’t leave you. Not when you need me.”

“Who said I needed you?”

“You were crying.”

“Ugh.” Roman flops back down against the bed. “Yeah. Ew.”

“It’s okay. You wanna tell me why?”

“Later,” Roman says. “Ugh. This is fucking uncomfortable.” Roman throws off the comforter, then unbuttons the rest of his shirt, wrestles it off, and kicks off his shorts. When he relaxes again, letting his body go limp, Victor gazes over Roman’s bare skin and feels suddenly like he shouldn’t look.

For a split second, it almost makes him angry. Being vulnerable around someone like Victor should get Roman killed. Between this and Roman letting Victor stay while he slept, Victor guesses Roman just trusts him. It’s a weird feeling. No one ever trusts Victor, unless it’s to do a job. But since Victor’s already decided he doesn’t want to hurt Roman—and decided sometime while Roman was asleep that he would do anything to keep Roman from being hurt—maybe that’s okay.

Roman drapes a hand over his head, dropping it palm up by Victor’s hip. When Victor doesn’t react, Roman snaps, “What are you waiting for? Fucking hold my hand.”

“You said not to touch you.”

“I changed my mind.”

Victor takes Roman’s hand and intertwines their fingers. They sit in silence until another knock sounds behind Roman’s door. “Roman!” his mother calls. “Do you have someone in there with you?”

“No!” he shouts back. “Fuck off!”

“The hotel decided to cut our reservation short after that stunt you pulled today. I hope you’re happy. We have to be out of here by tomorrow morning.”

Roman doesn’t answer. After a few minutes, when his mother is probably gone, he sighs, “Shit.”

“Thought you didn’t wanna be here anyway,” Victor says.

“Well I like being with _you.”_ Roman sits up in bed and stretches his shoulders. “Fuck it. Fuck them. Let’s go to the beach.”

“Want me to climb back down from the balcony?”

“Fuck no. We’re going through the suite.” A wicked smile comes across Roman’s face. “Let them see you. I don’t give a shit.”

Roman throws his wrinkled clothes back on. He splashes water on his reddened face and brushes his hair only enough that it doesn’t look like he’s just crawled out of bed. “You ready?” he asks. When Victor nods, Roman takes his hand, slams the bedroom door open, and carries Victor at a run through the suite.

“Roman!” his mother shrieks. “Who _is_ that?” But by then, they’re already sprinting down the hall, laughing as they go.  


* * *

  
The sun is on its way down, over gently lapping waves and the occasional boat in the far distance. A few people still roam the beach, but they all avoid the sobbing boy and his scar-covered companion.

“They signed you up without even asking?”

Roman nods, sniffling. He wipes his eyes on his once-again shed shirt.

“Hey,” Victor says. “Maybe it’ll be okay. I could visit you.”

“You would?”

“Yeah, why the fuck not? You think they’d let me enroll?”

“Where did you go to high school?”

“I didn’t.”

Roman smiles, before a new trickle of tears makes him screw up his face.

“We could do it now,” Victor says. “I have my knives. I’ll take the fall for you. I promise.”

Roman should want it. He should, and he knows he should, but he just… doesn’t. Even though the fantasy of his parents screaming out to him while they get burnt to a crisp (or frothing on the floor while clutching at lungs that let in no air, or even bleeding from their necks by Victor’s hand) brings him some peace, it hurts too. There’s too much unfinished business. (He likes the idea of Victor wearing scars for his parents—a permanent memorial to them and love token for Roman—but he pushes it away, deciding already that it’s not going to happen.) “No.”

“It’s okay. I want to.”

“I don’t want to kill them,” Roman whispers. “I don’t want them to die.”

Victor puts a hand on Roman’s bare, trembling shoulder. “Roman. I know you do.”

“I want to fucking show them that I don’t need them.”

Disappointment shows on Victor’s face when he realizes Roman is serious, but he doesn’t need any more convincing to catch up. “You don’t need them,” he says.

“I don’t fucking need them. I don’t need fucking Gotham University or fucking Janus Corp. and I don’t fucking need _them._ I want to show them that I can make it on my own.” His tears finally drying, Roman wipes the rest on his shirt before dropping it into the sand. He gazes into the setting sun, over the point where it casts its reflection over the sparkling ocean, and then turns back to Victor with wildness in his eyes. “You could help me.”

“Yes,” Victor says, without having to think about it.

“Will you come back to Gotham with me?”

“Yes.”

“We could work together.” Roman’s mouth breaks into a wide smile. He takes Victor’s shoulders in both hands and shakes him until Victor is smiling, too. “And we can make it _together._ Oh, Victor, I have the best idea. Have you heard of the Bertinelli diamond?”  


* * *

  
“Well,” Roman’s mother says while they wait in the suite, suitcases packed, for their driver to arrive and take the luggage downstairs. “I’m sure you know you can’t associate with _that._ Maybe it’s for the best that we cut our vacation short.”

‘Cut our vacation short,’ she says, as if the incident at brunch yesterday never happened.

“Yes, mother.”

On the drive home, Roman doesn’t try to hide his high spirits. He lets his parents think it’s because he’s pleased that he ruined their vacation (which he is)—when really, it’s because Victor is headed to Gotham City already, with Roman’s address in his pocket and a promise to climb through Roman’s window as soon as he can figure out how to evade the security system.

Victor also promised, with his experience, that it wouldn’t take long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my wonderful beta, [Jacket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacketarearmpants) 💕


End file.
